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IMAGINAEY CONVERSATIONS 

BETWEEN 



SHAKESPEAEE, 

THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTOK, 



AND 



RICHARD QUYNER, 



AN OLD ASSOCIATE, 



AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 



^^^/ncc 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY JORDAN AND COMPANY, 

121, Washington Street. 

1844. 



Ik^^— ^ — "^^^^ 



/ 



AN 



IMAGINARY CONVERSATION 



BETWEEN 



^%> 



ALSO, \'i^<: : 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

AND HIS FRIEND, ^ 

HENRY MIOTHESLY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON. 
AN IMAGINARY CONVERSATION, 

BETWEEN THE SAME MR. SHAKESPEARE, AND 

MR. RICHARD QUYNER, AN OLD ASSOCIATE OF HIS, 

AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. ' ' 7" 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY JORDAN AND COMPANY. 

1844. 






Ci _ 



^^1 




Entered according to x\ct of Congress, in the year 1844, by 

VV. G. Dix, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts, 



BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRY AND CO 

18, Devonshire Street, 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



These conversations were published several months 
ago in a weekly periodical in Boston, but were so 
surrounded by ^' fine stories/' *^ thrilling tales/' &c., 
that I have thought it proper to have them printed in 
this form, as the commencement of a series of similar 
papers. 

It does, perhaps, hardly become the writer of so 
small a tract as this, to say anything about himself; 
nevertheless, as it is my desire to make a fair start in 
this undertaking, I will state this much, for the satis- 
faction of those who wish to know who it is that 
claims their attention, that for a little more than two 
years I was a member of the very respectable Uni- 
versity in this place, but that, about a year since, I 
withdrew from the department of it, with which I 
was connected, partly on account of ill-health, partly 
for lack of means, but especially, from a desire to 
exercise myself in a more congenial sphere. 

And now it may be permitted me to say something 
about the chief topic suggested by these conversa- 
tions. It has been much debated of late, whether the 



4 

Drama is not fast dying out. The most natural answer 
to this seems to be, that, although it is earnestly to 
be hoped that a licentious Drama will never be 
revived, the Drama itself cannot die, until men cease 
to converse together ; for, the dramatic style of writ- 
ing being the most simple and best calculated to com- 
bine instruction with judicious entertainment, every 
person who finds that way of expressing his thoughts 
the most convenient to his temper, will adopt it, and 
will thus do his part towards keeping alive that dispo- 
sition in all men's minds to have matters of reflection 
presented to them in the liveliest manner consistent 
with discretion and decency. 

It is, indeed, greatly to be lamented that the Drama 
should have been so prostituted as to cherish vice 
rather than encourage virtue; to set forth the wicked- 
ness of men in oftentimes so pleasing a manner as to 
serve rather as an allurement than a warning. But, 
although the Drama, when abounding in impurity and 
profaneness, deserves no higher appellation than the 
Poetry of Hell, yet, when it has thrown off the fetters 
of sensuality and sin, it may exert a powerful influ- 
ence in fostering a spirit of true manliness and social 
virtue, and in promoting an intellectual taste founded 
upon the truths of R^eligion. And so it will be ; for 
every person who rightly discerns the signs of the 
times, who looks about him and sees how the people 
have invaded the peculiar province of the scholar, 
and are boldly discussing the highest matters both in 
Church and in State; how they are becoming less and 



less disposed to regard with favor the creations of a 
cunning fancy, however wild or beautiful they may 
be, if they have no intimate connexion with the high- 
est themes of human thought, will feel that the Dra- 
matist can have little hope of usefulness, if he does 
not conform to the intellectual demands of the age. 
Indeed, it is evident to all persons looking carefully 
into the future, and interpreting it by the past, that 
there is fast hastening on a revolution of opinions, 
bloodless it may be, but beyond precedent terrible. 
In this revolution the Drama is destined to take her 
place, not to delight the ear by enchanting fancies, 
but to sing of Prophets, Kings, and Christian Martyrs, 
of the early struggles and afflictions of the Church, 
of its fearful conflicts past and to come, of its final 
victory over Sin, the Devil, and Roman Apostacy, of 
its triumphant glory upon earth, and of its ineffable 
and everlasting excellency in the Paradise of God. 

w. G. D. 
Cambridge^ Jan, 8, 1844. 



AN IMAGIMRY CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND HIS FRIEND, 
THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON. 



SHAKESPEARE. 

Good-morrow, my lord. 



SOUTHAMPTON. 



What ! Will Shakespeare, a welcome to 
you. How do you, and what means that 
strange twinkle in your right eye ? 



SHAKESPEARE. 



My lord, for your welcome, I thank you. 
As to your questions, to the first my reply is, 
that my health is as sound as I could desire ; 
and for the second, I must tell your lord- 
ship, that I have been writing a play con- 



cerning King Henry the Fourth, of glorious 
memory ; and having occasion to introduce 
therein a certain portly and facetious knight, 
by name John FalstafF, I have been moved 
to mirth so heartily, that maybe, I have not 
quite recovered from it. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

Ah, then you find yourself in just the 
mood with the man you are representing in 
a play. Do you feel disposed to weep also, 
w^hen you are telling of one who has been 
overwhelmed with misfortune ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Why, my lord, as to that matter, I can- 
not say that the tears ever slip out of my 
eyes in such a case, nor do I mean, that in 
writing about Sir John, I was so mirthfully 
affected as to laugh outright ; but your lord- 
ship must needs think that we play-writers 
could not have much success, if we did not 
enter into the characters we are describing, 
and be affected by what we represent them 
to say or do, in the same way as we should 



be, were the same things really said or done 
by living persons. The writer of a play, 
my lord, maintains a perfect calmness of 
the mind, when engaged upon the most 
exciting scenes, and he is apt to be the 
calmest, when describing what is most cal- 
culated to disturb the feelings of others ; 
but, nevertheless, his soul will be full of 
mirth, when queer ideas are passing through 
his mind, though no one but a keen ob- 
server would detect it in the outward ap- 
pearance, and he will feel sad, when setting 
down mournful things in a play, though, to 
an observer, he would seem to be only a 
little more sedate than usual. No man in 
a fit of violent, uncontrollable emotion, 
could ever compose anything, which would 
excite similar passion in a reader. When 
two men are overflowing with boisterous 
anger, what they say to each other is empty 
and flat ; it is only when their wrath settles 
into calmness, that they say bitter things. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

What you say. Will, has a semblance of 



10 



common sense ; but what have you to do 
with common sense ? you are a poet. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

My lord, I did not suppose that you held 
the vulgar notion that poetical abilities and 
common sense were perfect antipodes. No, 
my lord, they are not. The notion perhaps, 
is supported by the low ideas some men 
have of common sense, as if indeed, it were 
nothing but that low cunning, which can 
always manage to get the best side of a 
bargain ; but that is not it. It is a quick 
and keen insight into things, without going 
through a labyrinth of ands and ifs and buts 
and there/ores ; and who possesses this fac- 
ulty in such perfection as the poet ? the true 
poet, I mean, not the rhyme-maker. Your 
man of common sense sees through a mat- 
ter at a glance, and because he does it so 
quickly, the undiscerning are apt to call him 
superficial ; whilst your great reasoner, 
who pretends to demonstrate everything he 
says, after puzzling his brain for hours upon 
the same subject, comes to what he calls a 



11 



conclusion, and gets the name of being 
very profound. It is all a mistake. Your 
true superficialist is your man, who must 
go to the depths of a question step by step, 
on a long ladder of logic, and he is the 
really profound man, who needs none of 
these artificial helps, but goes to the bottom 
at once. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

But, Will, you cannot mean that all the 
logic, which scholars use, is good for no- 
thing, and rather a hinderance than a help 
to the understanding of difficult subjects ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

No, my lord, logic is an excellent thing 
in its way, an excellent thing. I would not 
say one word against logic. I only main- 
tain that common sense is not such a despi- 
cable thing as some folks hold it to be. All 
the logic in the world will never teach a 
man to reason, if he did not know before ; 
and if he did know before, all the use of 
logic is to show him when he is wrong. 



12 



But I hold that plain common sense is supe- 
rior to all logic. The orator must have it, 
for he endeavors to persuade men of com- 
mon sense : the poet must have it, if he 
would interest the great mass of the people 
in his productions ; in short, common sense 
my lord, is sunlight, and your logic is only 
candle-light. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

Well, a poet v^ill have his own notions 
about everything, yet you cannot persuade 
me that an unlearned fellow, whose mind 
happens to move quickly, will be more 
likely to hit the truth of a matter, than a 
strong-minded man, whose brain is well 
spiced with logic. But to leave this sub- 
ject ; you know. Will, there are many men 
of wit, who take a fancy to your perform- 
ances, and in their good judgment think 
that your writings will afford instruc- 
tion and amusement to many that will come 
into the world long after this generation 
have gone out of it. And yet, you seem 
altogether careless of your reputation, and 
after your plays have gone from your hands, 



13 



you leave them to be twisted into all man- 
ner of shapes by others, who, in their whim- 
sical fancy, think they can improve what 
you have written, and make it more suitable 
for critical ears. Besides, if a passage in 
any of your plays is misunderstood, you 
have little care to set the matter right; 
how is this ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

My lord, it does not enter into the com- 
position of a poet to be over-careful about 
his composition ; he must even let it go for 
what it is worth, because he cannot afford 
to make the corrections, which he himself 
knows to be necessary. And then, my lord, 
this correcting a play is hard work ; it is an 
easier matter to write a new play, than to 
go very critically over an old one, taking 
in and putting out, pruning and changing 
words and sentences. But, as to my being 
careless of my reputation, it is not so. I 
know well enough what I am, but because 
I do not make a bluster, and say aloud to 
all people, " look ye, here 's a poet," for- 
2 



14 



sooth, some of my short-sighted friends 
have a notion that I am a stranger concern- 
ing my own disposition. I will not say that 
1 am always thinking about myself, but I 
tell you this for a certain truth, that no man 
ever hved, who had a good share of native 
sense, without finding it out sooner or later. 
His consciousness may not be active at all 
times, for he must busy his brain about 
something else than itself; but he will have 
a sort of passive consciousness of his own 
power, that restrains him from self-conceit, 
and at the same time gives him confidence 
to set about what he knows he can perform. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

Well, I do not doubt the correctness of 
what you affirm concerning yourself, and I 
suppose no one would ever have thought 
you were unconscious of your ability, had 
it not been for that gentle, pliant way you 
have of accommodating yourself to whom- 
soever you fall in with, whether of high or 
low capacity. But to change the subject 
of our conversation, how is it with you. 



13 

Will, about your writing ? Can you write 
at all times equally well, or do you find it 
sometimes impossible to write anything, and 
at other times feel yourself so constrained 
to invention, that you cannot help writing ? 
Some men, you know, say that is all fool- 
ishness, this talking about being unable to 
compose anything, whatever it be, as well 
at one time, as another, and that it is only 
laziness which makes some persons so no- 
tional about this, 

SHAKESPEARE. 

My lord, I can conceive of a httle wit, 
who has so Httle native power, that it makes 
no difference with him, if he has a work to 
do which requires mental exertion, when or 
in what mood of mind he sets about it ; for 
he will be as likely to perform it at one time 
as well as (that is to say, no worse than) at 
another. There are some men I know, 
who even consider themselves endowed 
with some imagination, who only show that 
they have the least share of this faculty, by 
fancying that they can get through with a 



16 

piece of writing, as the artisan does, who 
works by the job, for whose interest it is, 
that he finish it as soon as possible and have 
it oflT his mind. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

But how do you explain why it is that the 
mind should not be equally ready at all 
times to exert itself? Is not a man's mind 
under his own control ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

I will not vouch for giving a sure explana- 
tion of this matter ; but I know that it is so, 
and I think I could find reasons enough to 
satisfy my own mind, albeit they might not be 
satisfactory to another. In the first place, 
my lord, you must needs know that in order 
to the construction of anything right worthy, 
there must be intellectual harmony: no man 
can work out of his brain a fine piece of 
composition, if his faculties are all disturbed 
by many diverse influences; he must be 
wholly absorbed in what he is busy about. 



17 



or he can accomplish nothing. If there is 
discord in his soul, he cannot think, talk, or 
write sensibly. So that the matter rests 
here, whether this intellectual harmony can 
be voluntarily produced. I think, my lord, 
that it cannot always be so produced. For 
however highly cultured the mind may be, 
if it be of a highly original cast, it can hap- 
pen no otherwise than that many times it 
will be so bent in one direction, that it can- 
not be brought to bear with its whole power 
upon a matter which requires a different 
intellectual mood. To attempt forcing it 
in such a case, would occasion nothing but 
discord. And then, my lord, you know, 
that however it may be with the little wits, 
who never being able to fasten their whole 
mind upon a subject, have always some 
mental effort to spare for anything that 
comes up before them, it happens with a 
mind that throws itself wholly into whatever 
interests it, that it will not only be sooner 
exhausted, but will require a good deal of 
rest, and be unable to exert itself with 
vigor, till it has recovered its energies; 
Again, my lord, with regard to the poet, for 
2* 



18 

I suppose, that by your interrogations you 
meant especially to refer to him, he is the 
man, who the least of all men, has his own 
mind under his control. Whether he wish 
it or not, he cannot prevent his mind from 
busying itself as it may, with oftentimes 
wayward notions, about all things that 
impress it from without. If the poet were, 
in the common sense of the word, a thinker, 
it might not be so hard to bring his mind to 
bear upon a particular subject at any time ; 
but he is not so much a thinker as a 
thoughtful man. Philosophers are thinkers, 
but the poet cannot put himself into an 
agony of thinking for any body or anything ; 
his fancies must come tripping along of 
their own accord, or they are of little worth, 
and if, when he wants them, they will not 
come at his call, he has only to wait, till it 
suits them to appear before him. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

I find this an excellent opportunity to get 
all out of you that I can concerning your- 
self, and it may be, that knowing how it is 



19 



with your constitution, and what your 
mental habits and your feehngs are, I may 
at least come to thinking myself a poet, and 
perhaps to being one. At least, if it is a 
poetical characteristic to be sometimes dis- 
inclined to set about any labor, I think I 
may claim even now to be no mean poet. 
But, Will, what do you find to do in the 
winter months, when even the mind par- 
takes somewhat of the character of the 
season ? Does your fancy move as quickly 
now as in the summer-time ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

My lord, the winter is the time to read, 
and muse, and not to write. Then the 
fancy does not play nimbly, but seems like 
the ground, covered up and hardened, with 
its elasticity lost, and its genial warmth con- 
cealed. But when spring comes the mind 
feels its gladdening influence, the fancy 
throws off" her fetters, and plumes her wings, 
and rejoices with all nature at the coming 
of the genial season. Then shoot up again 
what had lain covered and seemingly dead. 



k 



20 



and the whole soul is refreshed, quickened 
and awakened. Bright and beautiful 
thoughts arise in the mind which keep it 
ever active, and eager to discern new and 
wonderful things in the world, and to com- 
mune more intensely with its own inspi- 
rations. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

You ought certainly to know how the! 
seasons affect the disposition of a poet, andf 
since I can only conjecture what they may 
be, I have only to take your words as true, 
without gainsaying. But it is a wonder to 
me, how a poet's soul should be so full of 
beautiful images, and yet be unable to pour 
them forth at any time. Spirits do not 
easily congeal, and I wonder how so vola- 
tile a thing as a poetls mind should ever be 
in a dumpish humor. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

There are some poets, my lord, whose 
heads seem to be overruning with poeticlil 
ideas, and they give them out in such abund- 



21 



ance, that a clown might think their sources 
were unexhaustible ; but such are the poets 
who have an exuberant fancy with very 
httle discretion. They will portray a matter 
to you, whether of history or purely imagi- 
native, colored with all rich tints, and you 
will confess, at the first seeing it, that it 
looks passably agreeable, but you cannot 
jQiuster courage to go over it a second time, 
it will then seem so clumsily and awkwardly 
done. But the man who has a strong im- 
agination, does not have constantly on hand 
a supply of metaphors and figures of speech 
to be dealt out unsparingly when occasion 
requires. It is not the number of images 
and poetical ideas, which are put into a 
poem, that make it worthy of praise ; it is in 
the grouping them together, that they may 
have the greatest eflTect, that the true skill 
of the poet is shown. Imagination is not 
the faculty which enables a man to pile to- 
gether heaps of pretty sayings without order 
or method ; and whoever thinks, that be- 
cause he has at his tongue's end all sorts of 
metaphors, he is therefore a poet, is in that 
matter greatly mistaken. 



22 



SOUTHAMPTON. 



Why, Will, you are as strange a fellow as 
it was ever my luck to behold. I expressed 
my astonishment at something which ap- 
peared paradoxical to me, and, instead of 
resolving my doubts, you go about a great 
way to talk to me of metaphors and figures 
of speech and all that. Will you please re- 
turn to your starting-place, and explain the 
question to me ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

It is indeed a grievous thing to me, that 
in what 1 have observed to your lordship, 
I have not kept myself to the subject of dis- 
course ; but you know that it is not accord- 
ing to the poet's disposition to attend closely 
to one thing ; for, when an opposite fancy 
strikes him, he must follow it, though it lead 
ever so far away. And so it is that, — but I 
beg your lordship's pardon, I can tell by the 
expression of your face, that you think I am 
about digressing again. Well, let us come 
back. What is it, my lord, we were talking 
of? 



/ 



23 



SOUTHAMPTON. 



Why this ; you were satisfying me on the 
point of the season's influence upon the 
poetical spirit, and my surprise is, that so 
quick-moving a machine as a poet's mind, 
should ever be stopped by the chiUiness of 
the air, or any such thing. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

And here your lordship may see that I 
was not digressing, when I spoke of the 
difference between a strong imagination 
and an exuberant fancy. There Hes the 
reason of the thing, and your lordship may 
examine it at your leisure. If you wish 
the metaphysics of the question, you must 
keep wishing, for no farther can I satisfy 
you, than to give you my word, that the im- 
agination is apt to be clogged when the air 
is cold, and that then the poet is well nigh 
as stupid as a plodding mortal. And now, 
I bethink me of a pressing matter which 
concerns me, and I must leave you, with 
many thanks for your honest plainness, and 



24 



your kind regard for a play-writer like me. 
Good-day my lord. 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

Good-day, Will ; and many thanks to you 
in return for the gratification you have af- 
forded me. Good-day. 



AN IMAGINARY CONVERSATION 

BETWEEN WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND RICHARD 
QUYNER, AN OLD ASSOCIATE OF HIS, AT STRAT- 
FORD-UPON-AVON. 



R. Q. 



Good morning, Mr. Shakespeare ; I am 
very glad to see you. You have just ar- 
rived from London, I understand ? 



SHAKESPEARE. 

Yes, Mr. Quyner, I have been living, 
you know, in London, for some years, with- 
out making many visits to my native town ; 
and when I do so, it always affords me 
pleasure to take my old companions by the 
hand, — how goes the world with you ^ 
3 



26 



R. Q. 



Oh, Mr. Shakespeare, the world goes 
round, and carries me with it in as good 
condition as I could desire, though some- 
what uncomfortably pent up in this town. 
I would rather be in the great city, where 
there is more animation, more stir. 



SHAKESPEARE. 

Your wish is very natural, but still, those 
who are crowded along in the thorough- 
fares of a great city, are desirous also of 
getting far away into the retirement of the 
country. So it is with us all, we should be 
well content with our lot, were it only a 
little different from what it is. 

R. Q. 

You speak the truth, I cannot gainsay it. 
Do you know, Mr. Shakspeare, what won- 
derful stories we have had circulated here 
about you lately. They say that you have 
been writing plays, which have taken so 



27 



well with the people, both high and low, 
that even noblemen have desired your ac- 
quaintance ; and some go so far as to say, 
that our good queen Elizabeth has bestowed 
upon you some especial marks of her ap- 
probation. Why, Mr. Shakespeare, we 
never thought you had a wonderful wit. 
You recollect how many times we have 
played together, how we have angled in 
that river yonder, and you had no more 
sense than the rest of us, — at least you did 
not show it. And now, that my old play- 
fellow, Will Shakespeare, writes plays, and 
has the majesty, nobihty, and gentry of the 
land to see them acted ! Dear me, I won- 
der if I could'nt write a play. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

I cannot deny that the reports you speak 
of have some foundation. It is true, that 
some of the plays I have written have been 
applauded beyond my expectation, by those 
whose good opinion is well deserving of 
regard ; and our worthy queen has express- 
ed towards me many encomiums, which 



28 



though as yet, in my estimation of myself, 
hardly deserved, I hope may be so in my 
future endeavors. As to my setting about 
the writing of plays for a livelihood, I 
knev^ not what else to do, and had hardly a 
thought of what I was engaged in, till all at 
once I found myself the writer of a play 
altogether my own, after having helped to 
make some others, which had been offered 
for representation, passable. So having thus 
begun, there was no other way of proceed- 
ing for me, than to keep on in the same 
course. Somewhat to my surprise it was, 
to be sure, that I found the people liked my 
plays, and that some came even from the 
court to see them. But I could not help 
their coming, nor, sooth to say, did I desire 
to do so ; I was made glad by seeing them, 
and if my humble performances afforded 
them equal gratification, I would not have 
them deprived of it. 

R. Q. 

Well, now I have it from your own lips, 
that these reports concerning you are not 



29 



false, will you tell me what subjects you 
discourse upon in your plays ? 



SHAKESPEARE. 



I do not confine myself to any single 
subject, but endeavor to embrace as many 
as possible, so that I may present an agree- 
able variety. Sometimes I take up an his- 
torical matter, as illustrated in the lives of 
our sovereigns, — that keeps up the spirit 
of patriotism, as well as aflfords delight to 
the mind. In an old story, too, I often meet 
with something that can be wrought into a 
play. Whenever I hit upon anything of 
that nature, I begin to brood over it, half 
asleep, it may be, and perhaps striving to 
free myself from contemplating it, that I 
may seek a subject better suited to me ; but 
I find myself drawn back, and so compelled 
to have nothing but that one thing before 
my mind, that the result is very likely to be 
a play in five acts, with very little of the 
original story in it, but filled in with other 
matter as my invention leads me. 



3* 



30 



R. Q. 



A very excellent plan, Mr. Shakespeare ; 
and if ever I am in London on one of your 
play-nights, I will go to see whatever you 
have to be acted, and when I shall see the 
lords clapping their hands, the ladies wav- 
ing their handkerchiefs, and all the common 
sort of folks breaking forth into raptures at a 
fine scene, I do not know that I can refrain 
from teliing all those about me that I used 
to be a playfellow of yours. But, Mr. 
Shakespeare, I hope you do not have many 
love stories in your plays. I never could 
abide such things, because those who write 
them are so apt to tell romantic stories that 
mean little, while of the love of brothers 
and sisters towards each other, and of pa- 
rental and of filial affection, they hardly 
discourse at all. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

It is true, indeed, that there is very little 
in what you term love stories, to call forth 
admiration. I profess not to err in that 



31 

matter. 1 have introduced lovers into 
many of my plays, but I have endeavored 
to make them talk as sensibly as possible. 
It is my aim to represent things naturally, 
and so I have need sometimes to represent 
lovers, since there are such beings in the 
vy^orld, and it v^ould be strange in me, that 
pretend to look over the various characters 
and interests of mankind, to leave them out 
altogether. At the same time, I have no 
desire to make it appear that men have 
nothing to do in the world besides murmur- 
ing and sighing and talking foolishly by 
reason of their intense love, — that would 
be equally unnatural. I agree with you 
also, that we seldom see portrayed in works 
of fancy the every-day affections of hfe. 
One reason of it I think may be, that in 
the view of those who write these works, 
there is nothing particularly striking in do- 
mestic, household feelings, and so they have 
need to go about to seek for some roman- 
tical instances of affection and attachment, 
which they may make more interesting and 
agreeable than they could a common story. 
Partly they are in the right, and partly in 



32 

the wrong. In the right, because it were a 
foolish laying out of skill to attempt adorn- 
ing that which has in itself no remarkable 
interest ; and in the wrong, because there 
are in what we may see around us at all times 
abundant materials for the fancy to work 
upon. 

R. Q. 

True, Mr. Shakespeare. — May 1 ask 
you whether you regard the representation 
of a play as likely to have any other effect 
upon the spectators than to excite mere 
emotions of pleasure ? You know there are 
those who say that, by seeing acted out be- 
fore us an exceedingly virtuous or vicious 
character, we are led instinctively to imi- 
tate the one, and to take warning by the 
other ; but it has ahvays appeared to me a 
very doubtful matter, whether men are 
really made better by seeing a play, al- 
though it may represent the finest attributes 
of humanity; not because, considered by 
itself, there may not be in it much that is 
noble and beautiful, but because men are 



33 

apt to regard such things as mere matters 
of taste, and not as means of improvement. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Your question involves many considera- 
tions, which it would be impossible for me 
at this time fully to enter into. I may say 
this much, however, — that no man can 
reasonably expect that a piece of composi- 
tion, which displays more imagination than 
anything else, should have a great and last- 
ing moral effect. It may excite emotions of 
the purest kind, but since it relies more for 
its effect upon the intellect than upon the 
heart, its strictly moral influence is not apt 
to be so great or so permanent, as the pro- 
duction of a mind far less imaginative, per- 
haps, but having more persuasive power. 
The office of the imagination is to please. 
It is not to discover anything w^hich shall 
add to the stock of knowledge, — its office 
is to please. A man may even be pained 
by the consciousness of having more imagi- 
nation than other men, because when he 
would speak in earnest, men are so apt to 



34 



disregard the purport of what he says, in 
their enjoyment of the fancies, which he 
cannot help throwing around it ; so that, 
let him do his best, he can only please. 

R. Q. 

I cannot say amen to all that, Mr. Shake- 
speare. It seems to me that the fancy may 
frequently be so brought to bear upon an 
interesting subject, and one that is closely 
related to the good of men, that the best 
feehngs of the heart may be wrought upon, 
and that, not transiently, but permanently. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

That is true, and is not inconsistent with 
my own notions upon the matter, though I 
have too broadly, perhaps, laid down my 
argument. I know that men may be actu- 
ated by various manifestations of the imagi- 
native spirit, whether in the majesty of 
eloquence or in the gentle power of har- 
mony, to the performance of noble deeds ; 
yet the effect, even here, is, to my under- 



35 

standing, chiefly intellectual, or at least as 
much intellectual as moral. The feelings 
may, indeed, be reached, but their action 
will be so blended with that of the intellect, 
that one can hardly determine, whether any 
particular manifestation of the influence, 
exerted comes from the head or the heart. 
Thus you may see a man enjoy intensely a 
work of imagination, and yet go away, and 
in social life show himself completely un- 
mindful of the lesson the writer chiefly en- 
deavored to inculcate. T have often tried 
in my plays to give a passing thrust at some 
fashionable folly, or to make some virtue, 
that was lightly esteemed, of greater mo- 
ment ; and yet I have found that the very 
persons who the most eagerly attended to 
the play were often those, who warded off* 
with the greatest skill the arrows I aimed at 
them, and such as them. So I often lament 
this my ill-success, and have now settled it 
with my disposition, that all I can do in the 
world is to please the fancy of men. 

R. Q. 

Mr. Shakespeare, I cannot hear you talk 



36 



so without feeling that you greatly wrong 
yourself. You may not immediately see 
the effects of what you write, but be assured 
that whatever is earnestly said, however set 
off with the colors of fancy, will be felt at 
one time or another. You may not even in 
your life see the practical use men may 
make of your writings, — what maxims of 
wisdom they may collect from them, and 
what beautiful and grand sentiments they 
may find therein ; but when years have 
passed over your grave, men will begin to 
regard more carefully what you have said, 
and not having the times and circumstances 
of your plays directly before them, will think 
more of the profound thoughts, that, as it 
w^ere, fled to the bye-corners of your plays, 
to get away from the bustling scenes dis- 
played in them, and which modestly con- 
cealed themselves till careful hands sought 
them out. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

You say many encouraging things of me, 
and, although you over-estimate my per- 



37 



formances, yet I trust that you may be so 
far correct in your notions, that men of 
after times will not look back upon me as 
upon a man who lived in vain, and who 
could do nothing but please. Good-bye. 



R. Q. 



Stop, Mr. Shakespeare, I have not yet 
done with you, you must not go away so 
quickly, I have hardly spoken with you a 
minute. 



SHAKESPEARE. 



I am not disposed to set little by the kind- 
ness of my friends, — surely I would not 
leave you yet, if you wish to hold more 
converse with me. But since you have 
called me back again, I should like to get 
some knowledge from you of matters here ; 
we were talking so much about plays and 
all that, that I forgot to ask you many things 
I had on my mind. How fares Sir Thomas 
now-a-days ? 

4 



38 

R. Q. 

Oh ! Sir Thomas ? He is somewhat 
poorly now. He hves there in his old seat 
yet, but he does not seem to enjoy lite over- 
much. He carries himself rather haughtily 
towards the people here, and, if I may be 
so bold, is as ready ^as ever to punish the 
least trespass ; however, you know, we must 
have patience with such men, — he keeps 
up the credit of the village, and we must 
make due allowance for his whimsies. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Well, how is it with the good old school- 
master, Thomas Jenkins, — is he living 
still ? I meant to have called upon him, 
but my engagements are so pressing, that I 
doubt whether I shall have the opportunity. 

R. Q. 

Oh yes, and for so old a man as he is, 
he is very well. I wish you could hear him 
talk about you sometimes. He heard of 



39 

your success in London ; and whenever he 
meets with any of your old acquaintances, 
he is always sure to speak some praise of 
you. I met him the other day in the street, 
and was just passing him with a. good morn- 
ings Mr. Jenkins, when he stopped all at 
once, and said, " Mr. Quyner, when did you 
see Mr. William Shakespeare last ? " I told 
him that several years had gone by, since I 
had seen your face. Then he burst out 
with, " That was a clever lad, Mr. Quyner, 
I knew he would come to something. When 
he was under my care, he was always so 
quiet and industrious, and so kind and good- 
natured to everybody.'' And that is the 
way he always speaks about you. And, — 
but Mr. Shakespeare, just see that old man 
walking down towards us so slow and feebly 
— I do believe it is father Jenkins himself. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

It surely is he. 

R. Q. 

Now, Mr. Shakespeare, let 's go up to 



40 

meet him, and then we three will go down 
to my house, and have a pleasant chit-chat 
about old times. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Yes, I '11 go. 



1 1844. . I 



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